Two days had passed since the incident with Lord Kaelen’s research notes. That morning, a particularly odious odor of scorched parchment clung to the air near the Collegium’s incinerator, a scent only a fool would fail to connect with the recent outrage.
Servants, under the direction of an anonymous patron, had emptied a refuse cart into the fiery maw. Within, amongst the common discards, were the remains of Lord Kaelen’s meticulously transcribed arcane histories, their edges blackened, their precious bindings reduced to ash.
Tracing the deed back to its orchestrator required little acumen. By mid-morning, whispers had coalesced into names. Ser Gallus, his grin wide and insolent as he conversed with Lord Varian, had been heard boasting earlier in the common halls of the Collegium, describing in vivid detail the satisfying crackle of the flames consuming Kaelen’s life’s work.
“How exceedingly bold.”
Elian Vance surveyed the smoldering refuse heap, its grey tendrils of smoke curling upward into the crisp morning air. The incident, as subtle as a bludgeon to the temple, marked a definitive shift. Lord Kaelen, in his unhinged pursuit of Lord Theron, had finally overplayed his hand.
Two days prior, Kaelen had unknowingly sealed his own fate, losing not to Theron, but to the shifting tides of courtly favor and whispered calumny.
Initially, Elian had dismissed Kaelen’s escalating provocations as mere youthful indiscretion, albeit of a violent bent. But a scholar of Elian’s caliber was trained to discern the deeper currents beneath placid surfaces. Kaelen’s fixation on Lord Theron had transcended mere rivalry, blooming into an obsessive hatred that warped his every interaction, driving away even his erstwhile confidantes. The brawl in the grand hall, Kaelen’s wild, desperate swings against Theron’s measured defense, had cemented Elian’s grim prognosis. The young lord was unraveling.
Yet, observing the Collegium’s opinion turn like a spoiled vintage against Lord Kaelen, Elian felt no compulsion to intercede, nor the prick of misplaced guilt. To defend Kaelen would invite scrutiny, a dangerous spotlight on his own modest House Vance. It would brand him as loyal, perhaps even kind. But in the serpentine corridors of the Imperial Collegium, where alliances shifted like desert sands, such an act would only prompt a singular, chilling question from those who wielded true power.
*Why?*
The thought alone, of drawing that unwanted attention, sent a tremor through Elian.
He rested his head upon his desk, the smooth, cool wood a small comfort against the heat of his contemplation. For a fleeting moment, he wished for a world where awakening brought only desired realities. He was on the verge of succumbing to the gentle sway of sleep.
Then, something struck the crown of his head, a sharp tap jolting him back to awareness. Elian sat upright, rubbing the tender spot, only to find Lord Varian likewise touching his own forehead, a perplexed frown marring his usually unruffled features.
“By the Emperor’s beard, that stung.”
“Then why tempt slumber during morning recitation?”
“A scholar’s concerns are his own, Vance. And what, pray tell, is that?”
“This?” Varian’s grin returned, wide and unashamed. He hefted a slender, carved ceremonial staff he had tucked beneath his arm, its polished jade glinting in the morning light. “Found it. Abandoned near the servants’ refuse bins outside the kitchens. A curious find, don’t you agree?”
Elian’s lips thinned. Lord Varian always possessed some peculiar trinket or adopted some odd habit.
The impact had been slight, yet Elian’s fingers instinctively sought his meticulously combed hair, worried it might have been dishevelled. Meanwhile, Varian kicked an empty stool away from his path, then executed a surprisingly fluid maneuver, settling onto it just before it could topple. He did not fall. He flung his leather satchel onto his desk, then leaned forward, resting his head upon it like a pillow.
“You rouse me from my rest only to indulge in your own?” Elian accused.
“Merely ensuring your vigilance, Vance. A good scholar should not miss the day’s lessons. My own grades are beyond saving, a lost cause.”
“A convenient lie.”
Elian twisted, a low murmur escaping him. Everything Varian uttered seemed to spark a contrary impulse within him. He nudged Varian’s foot with his own, an act of petty irritation. Varian merely smirked, his eyes still closed.
“Is it proper to assault a gentleman with a newly acquired… affliction? You base cur.”
The playful sarcasm in Varian’s tone drew a scoff from Elian. This time, Elian kicked at the jade staff resting against Varian’s stool. It tilted precariously, but Varian, without lifting his head, raised one hand and caught it with effortless grace. His face remained buried in his satchel. A soundless chuckle vibrated through him, then he spoke, his voice muffled.
“I’ve harbored a query, Vance.”
“Speak it.”
“Your recent… altercation. It wasn’t a mere tumble, was it?”
A sharp jolt coursed through Elian. Was it so transparent? His cheek, while still faintly bruised, had not suffered grievous injury.
He hesitated but a fraction of a breath, then smoothed a hand over his face, answering with studied nonchalance. “A simple misstep, Varian. The cobblestones outside the Collegium can be treacherous.”
“Hah.”
Varian’s chin remained on his satchel, but a soft, knowing chuckle escaped him.
“Indeed?”
His eyes, now open, flicked to Elian. He pointed a finger, precise and unwavering. Elian failed to grasp his intent, and his brows furrowed. “What?”
“You are remarkably unreserved.”
The moment Varian smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips, leaning his staff against his shoulder, Elian’s thoughts scattered like frightened birds.
*What utter nonsense is this?*
“…Unreserved about what?”
“I suspect your ‘misstep’ involved rather more… impetus.”
…………
Varian’s words, often cryptic, now carried a quiet, unsettling menace. His gaze was unnervingly steady. His bright irises held a dark, piercing pupil that fixed upon Elian. It was like watching the taut string of a crossbow, uncertain of its target. This time, the bolt was aimed squarely at him. Elian’s mind went blank. Two words hammered against the walls of his skull: *Impossible. He knows. Impossible. He knows.* Then, Varian’s eyes narrowed, just perceptibly.
“It appeared more as if you were… propelled.”
His long, serpentine eyes curved upward at the corners. Elian’s throat went dry. His breath hitched in his chest. A silent swallow. Varian parted his lips, and Elian found himself unable to blink.
“Should such a detail reach the ears of the Court, it would prove quite… mortifying, would it not?”
…………
“I shall endeavor to keep such an amusing incident to myself.”
Raising the hand holding his staff to his lips, Varian whispered the words, then delivered a slow, deliberate wink. The breath Elian had been holding slammed against his ribs, a trapped animal. Varian offered no space for reaction. He merely ran a hand casually through his dark bangs, then pointed at Elian.
“Though, I must inquire, Vance, have you adopted my hair’s style? It does seem rather… derivative.”
Elian was speechless. Varian crinkled his nose in an exaggerated display of distaste.
“In any event, I shall resume my slumber.”
He yawned, burying his face deeper into his satchel. Staring at the back of Varian’s head, Elian finally managed a strangled whisper.
“I have not emulated your coiffure, nor have I visited the barber’s chair.”
“Oh, is that so?” Varian’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his satchel.
---
“By the Seven Divine, who absolve us of our worldly transgressions.”
Lord Varian offered a dramatic prayer, clutching his Collegium report card in one hand. It was fourth period, the English recitation having just concluded, and the Archivist Masters had distributed the previous month’s midterm evaluations. Varian buried his head in the unfurled parchment, scanned his deplorable scores, and uttered that unexpected supplication. Then, he threw his head back, a deep, performative sigh escaping him.
“Ah, I am utterly bereft.”
Elian glanced at his own report card, noted his perfectly respectable, if not exceptional, marks, then folded the parchment with a precise crease. He slipped it into the front pocket of his bag. Varian continued to sigh, his head still thrown back. Elian, observing Varian’s prominent Adam’s apple, noted its heavy bob. It seemed almost to rebuke his staring. Keeping his gaze fixed on Varian’s throat, Elian spoke.
“That particular prayer holds a different intent, Varian.”
“A prayer is a prayer, Vance. The specifics are mere frippery.” Then, he abruptly straightened, a curious glint in his eye. “Tell me, is it ‘Divine’ or ‘God’?”
It was then that Elian registered something peculiar about Lord Varian—his approach to spiritual devotion was notably unconventional.
“Why pose such a question to me? It is your creed.”
“Ah, Vance, do not be so reticent. You are a scholar of forgotten languages, of arcane lore. I surmised you would possess all such esoteric knowledge.”
“I do not. Nor am I bound by any formal devotion.”
Varian, who had been leaning back with languid grace, suddenly shot forward, his eyes locking with Elian’s. Elian, caught unawares, instinctively averted his gaze towards the leaded panes of the window, feigning disinterest. Yet, a sharp prickle, like being caught pilfering forbidden scrolls, stung his chest.
He stared absently at the bustling Collegium grounds beyond, then shifted his focus to the stiff, perfectly pressed collar of Varian’s tunic. The crisp, white linen framed his neck, but with every exaggerated movement, the sharp line of his collarbone flashed into view.
“So? Care to join me at the House of the Whispering Sands this coming veneration day?”
“The… no. I think not.”
“Ah, why the refusal? Come, Vance. On veneration days and at the Solstice celebrations, they distribute generous alms. Rare fruits, spiced cakes, even roasted squab…”
“Hold. Do you attend solely for such base recompense?”
“But of course.”
Elian finally met Varian’s gaze, his eyes snagging on the slender, inscribed stylus Varian had artfully balanced on his upper lip. Pride demanded Elian deny it, but at that moment, he was forced to acknowledge the undeniable: Lord Varian possessed a striking countenance. A truly infuriatingly handsome bastard.
The stylus, wedged between Varian’s nose and upper lip, distorted his voice into a slurred, disgruntled mumble. “The way you articulate it, Vance, it’s as if I am engaging in thievery. If they are freely given, what fault lies in accepting them?”
“Can one truly call it faith if belief is predicated on such selfish motivations?”
“All begin thus, Vance. No one commences with grand, spiritual awakening. They think, ‘Ah, the delicious morsels are dispensed freely. That patron priest must possess commendable virtue.’ And then, little by little, that nascent appreciation for the ‘virtuous dispenser of squab’ blossoms into absolute devotion to the Seven Divine. The genesis and the progression matter little. What matters is the ultimate state: *I now believe*.”
Lord Varian, at times, uttered utter sophistry. Even the volatile Lord Kaelen had, on occasion, been ensnared by it.
Sometimes, it was pure nonsense. But sometimes, it was a form of sophistry so cunning, so enticing, that even Elian found himself pondering its insidious logic. This was one such instance.
Elian ran a hand through his dark bangs, sweeping them back from his forehead. They immediately fell back into his eyes, so this time, he shook his head with a slight exasperation. His fine strands of hair swayed before him. He gathered them near his temples, and finally, the persistent tickle lessened. The recent disruptions had made him forget his regular visit to the Collegium’s master barber.
With Lord Kaelen’s official expulsion and Lord Theron’s triumphant ascendancy, the front of the classroom, once a crucible of unspoken tension, now felt strangely vacant. There was no longer any compelling reason to direct his gaze toward that particular sector.
Six days prior, Archivist Master Lyra, his own mentor, had summoned Elian to her private scriptorium. She inquired if he had received any word from Lord Kaelen.
Elian answered, his tone measured and sincere. “No, Master Lyra. He has not sought me out.”
“You still have not reconciled with Lord Kaelen, then?”
A small, bitter smile touched Elian’s lips, a perfectly calculated display. In truth, he felt no inclination to smile at all. “No. Kaelen… became quite enraged with me.”
“Lord Kaelen became enraged with *you*?” Lyra repeated, a flicker of surprise in her eyes.
“Indeed.”
The whispers, Elian knew, had already reached the Master’s ears. She was not entirely oblivious to the implications of his carefully chosen words.
“Very well, I comprehend,” she said, dismissing him with a weary wave. As she settled back into her chair, Elian caught the muted murmurs of her subsequent soliloquy. Complaints about Lord Kaelen, frustration over the Grand Seigneur Kaelen’s demanding inquiries. Elian pretended not to hear the pathetic monologue, turning away, yet listening still. That was how he absorbed the prevailing sentiment within the Master’s sanctum.
Later, after the day’s recitations, as Elian prepared for his private tutoring sessions at home, Grand Seigneur Kaelen himself called upon him. The voice, resonant with inherited authority, posed the identical question as Archivist Master Lyra—if Elian knew of his son’s whereabouts.
Elian offered the same reply. “No, Grand Seigneur. Kaelen has not communicated with me for some time.”
*— I see…*
“I lament my inability to be of greater assistance.”
*— No, young Vance, there is naught for you to apologize for. It is… understandable.*
Lately, the Grand Seigneur Kaelen’s calls had grown alarmingly frequent. Each conversation unfolded with the same disquieting rhythm. There was something oddly deliberate, almost insistent, in his attempts to inextricably link Lord Kaelen and Elian. Elian made haste to conclude the exchange.
Frankly, there was nothing for him to lament. Yet he offered apologies anyway—a calculated gesture, designed to cultivate favor. It was the same ingrained instinct that compelled courtiers to praise the comeliness of a truly unfortunate imperial newborn. A social convention, a subtle dance of etiquette that lubricated the intricate machinery of their civilized society.
Thus, Elian was confident the seasoned adults of the Court perceived him not as a pawn, but as a judicious young scholar. His politeness, if anything, was akin to the precise pantomime of a skilled court jester. He knew his place, after all.
And having invested such diligent effort in being favored, he was destined to become a truly beloved jester. One day, even should he commit a blunder so blatant it wrinkled the brows of the Archons, they would find it in themselves to forgive him. Such was the groundwork Elian was assiduously laying.
Unlike certain ill-fated fools, he navigated the treacherous currents of the Imperial Court with wisdom and foresight.
Perhaps, from an Archon’s exalted perspective, Elian’s strategy was nothing more than a provincial’s petty contrivance to extricate himself from minor entanglements. But amongst his peers, his sagacity was undeniable. He possessed the acumen to manage unpredictable turns of fortune.
If proof were required, one had only to observe Ser Gallus.
Ser Gallus, more than any other, desperately sought to ingratiate himself with Lord Varian. And because Elian had, in the eyes of their cohort, aligned himself early and decisively with Varian, Gallus extended his cordiality to Elian as well. Though once one of Lord Kaelen’s most devoted companions, Gallus now made it abundantly clear where his loyalties lay.